The Next Big Thing
by unforth
Summary: Castiel Novak knew he was being optimistic when he entered The Next Big Thing, a label-run national competition looking for singers to be in the next teen band. He didn't expect to be one of the five winners, nor did he expect to meet the attractive, alluring, and strangely familiar Dean Winchester among the other contest winners.
1. Chapter 1

It's Wednesday again (...okay, technically it's Thursday...), which means it's time for Writing Prompt Wednesday! This week's theme is "music/musician AUs."

 **What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?**

Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday!

You can read more about Writing Prompt Wednesday, and read this week's entries, at my tumblr, unforth-ninawaters.

This week, I chose this prompt:

 _We all met for the first time when the studio brought us together and promised us we'd be the next Backstreet Boys AU_

* * *

"Hey-o, I'm Garth!" The slim boy grinned widely, ears like open car doors, looking far too gawky and awkward to possibly fit the casting criteria.

 _He must sing amazingly_. _Sounds like a tenor._

Garth grabbed Castiel's hand and shook it enthusiastically. Bemused, Castiel could do little but shake back. "Um, hi. Castiel Novak," he managed, though the boy didn't seem to be paying attention, he'd already moved on to the third boy in the room – or man, perhaps, everyone present were at that uncertain in between age where they still looked young but might be anywhere from barely eighteen up to their mid-20s. Castiel was 19.

Taking the next hand down the line, Garth shook that one just as eagerly, a black youth who gave Garth a stink eye and didn't say a word. The fourth was a curvy young woman who easily dodged back from Garth's enthusiastic greeting. "I'm Jo," she said in a voice that promised she'd belt every high note loud enough to resound through even the largest concert venues. Castiel felt a tingle of excitement – the woman's tone named her a mezzo-soprano, probably, Castiel was a baritone, Garth might be a tenor, the black man probably a base. They should sound awesome together.

An older man in a finely cut gray suit came in. Despite his formal garb, he looked out of place in the posh, sleek, black and white furnished meeting room, his skin pocked, his hair slicked back. "Bobby Singer," he said without preamble. Judging by everyone's nods, Castiel wasn't the only one already familiar with their producer. "Our trouble maker is already late. Fantastic."

"It's awesome to meet you in person, Mr. Singer," gushed Garth. "I'm Garth and..."

"I know who ya are, idjit," Singer interrupted gruffly. Garth chortled good-naturedly, gave up on trying to shake hands with the disinterested executive, and opted to manically pace the room. _Oh, he's going to be_ great _fun at rehearsals. But I bet he'll be electric on a stage..._ Singer took a folder from under his arms and studied it intently.

The contest had been national, the object simple: submit a video of yourself singing your heart out, the lucky winners to be assembled into the Next Big Thing. No, seriously, that was going to be the group's name. It was absurd, sure, but it was also a chance at fame. Castiel assumed a committee meeting had poured over the submissions, choosing not only those with the best voices but also those with personality, those who would look good standing on a stage or filming a music video, those whose voices would meld well.

"Wait, I know you," said the dark-skinned man abruptly, looking at Jo. "You're from that YouTube thing, Harvelcapella, right?"

Jo flushed. "Yep, that's me. Just some friends and I screwing around. If I'd known it would go viral I'd have come up with a better name."

"You guys are pretty good," the man managed to make that sound like the highest praise he could possibly bestow, and Jo flushed darker, cheeks starkly dark against her pale blonde hair.

"We all tried out," she said. "I was really hoping, if I made it, that Ash would make it to."

"We offered," said Singer absently, not looking up from what he was doing. "He said no thanks, so we moved on." Jo looked stunned by the news and didn't say anything.

The door opened and a fifth youth came in: slim, hair slicked back, green eyes giving them a guarded look from behind femininely long eye lashes, an over-size leather jacket hanging casually open.

"Finally," said Singer, rolling his eyes. "Alright. We don't have much time today – you five will have the chance to do all the meeting and greeting with each you could want over the next month, 'cause you're not going home 'til the studio gets something we can use from you. This contest cost a hell of a lot of money to put on, and if we don't get results quick, the buzz will wear off before you idjits ever produce a single song. So, quickly around, I think you've _all_ met Garth Fitzgerald already; this here is Jo Harvelle; Victor Henriksen; Castiel Novak; and our late arriving prima donna is Dean Winchester."

"Hey!" said Dean. Castiel had expected someone else with a higher voice – that was the usual spread for a group like this – but instead Dean's voice was gruff and low, unusually deep for a boy so young. It sent a shiver down Castiel's spine as he imagined that voice in harmony with his, how well they'd sound together. The studio execs had picking performers down to a science. Now that he'd heard everyone speak, he hadn't a doubt that they'd mix excellently – unusually, too, a darker sound than the usual pop that teen groups produced. That might be interesting, though in truth Castiel couldn't care less what they sang as long as he never had to apologize to another old biddy that he was no longer a perfect eleven year old choir boy soprano. The change in his voice when he'd hit puberty had been a sore disappointment to his entire congregation, but Castiel had refused to let that deter him from his dreams. His parents had threatened to disown him for coming to the studio, said that if he signed the contract he'd be misusing God's gift for his own gains. Even the danger of losing his family hadn't deterred him. They were going to disown him for _something_ sooner or later, and all things considered he'd rather it be a result of him making it big as a vocalist than because he was gay. _The Next Big Thing_ was the chance of a lifetime, and Castiel _had_ to take that chance.

"Are you planning to join us, Mr. Novak?" asked Singer dryly. Everyone was staring at him. Coloring hot with embarrassment, Castiel nodded and reached out to take the paper that Singer was offering his way. "For the benefit of those in the back of the classroom not paying attention, I'll repeat – this is your last test. Yes, we do have Option B's for each of you waiting in the wings. Look this over, take it back to your hotel rooms, learn your parts, come back tomorrow, and we'll record. If I like what I hear, you're all signed. If I don't, you're back down to the small time. Remember, this ain't just about if you can sing – we expect you to work together, harmonize; we also expect you to learn quick and accurate and apply yourselves. If y'all want to meet up and work together, that's your business – as long as it sounds good, I could care less how you get there. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Castiel said promptly. He colored even more darkly as simultaneously the others greeted Singer's announcement with "uh huhs" and "yups" and a casual "whatever" from Dean, tone belied by the intense way he was studying the sheet of music in his hand. Dean's eyes looked up, _damn_ were they green, he caught Castiel looking at him, and before Castiel could look away, Dean winked at him and his heart gave an embarrassing flutter.

 _No. This is my whole career, my whole life. I don't have time for a crush_.

A knock on Castiel's door pulled his attention from the music he'd been intently studying for hours. He nearly told the person to come in before he remember it was a hotel room and the door was locked. Disoriented, he got up and opened the door to be greeted by Dean, leaning casually against the door frame, clearly doing his damnedest to look like a bad boy. No amount of posturing could mask his boyish cuteness, though, and Castiel could swear there was something vulnerable hiding behind his roguish smile.

"Hey there, angel," said Dean. Castiel grimaced at the nickname.

"Don't call me that," he said, bristling. "My name is Castiel." 'Angel' was what his church had called him, how they'd marketed him when they'd dressed him up in robes and had him sing solo on psalms and Christmas carols, when they'd sold albums all over the world. At the time, Castiel had been happy to do the work, but that had changed when their pastor was arrested for embezzling the sizable funds earned from the sales and performances that Castiel had devoted years of his life to. Pastor Zachariah had gone to prison, but the money was never recovered.

"Why not? That's what they used to call you, right? What's a good boy like you doin' going the whole _sex, drugs and rock and roll_ route?" asked Dean, casually stepping past Castiel's lame attempts at blocking entry into the room. He looked over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through the large deck windows seemed to halo his head, making Dean look like he was the angelic one.

"You've heard of me," Castiel sighed. "Look, can we not have this conversation right now? I need to learn my part for the song. Anyway, who said anything about sex and drugs? I'm here for the rock and roll, that's it."

"Well, ain't that a pity," said Dean irreverently. "Oh, come _on_ , lighten up. That's what I'm here for!"

"You're here for _sex_?" Castiel asked in strangled tones, his heart skipping a beat. A small, horny, long-denied part of him whispered _that wouldn't be so bad_ , and Castiel repressed it mercilessly. Not the time, not the place, not the person.

"Woah, hold your horses," said Dean, putting his hands up defensively. He actually looked alarmed at the prospect. _Definitely not the person,_ Castiel thought sadly, making a note of the homophobic reaction. "I'm here for the rock and roll, just like you. I figured, from what I know of you, you probably had your part down already – thought you might like to practice together."

" 'What you know of me?' "

There was a long, awkward pause. All the bravado seemed to drain from Dean, his shoulders slumped, he turned away but not before Castiel caught a hint of a pained, sad expression tightening his eyes. By the time Dean slouched into one of the large sofas in the room, the look was gone, replaced with a cocky smile that rang false.

"Figures you don't remember me," said Dean, trying and failing to keep hurt from his voice.

Frowning, Castiel looked at the boy, crossing to join him. Though Castiel had traveled a fair amount during his time in the All Saints Church Choir, this was by far the lushest room in the finest hotel he'd ever stayed in. Nearly the size of the entire first floor of the house he'd grown up in, it was divided into a sleeping area with a bed so big Castiel couldn't convince himself it was 'only' a king sized, a seating area with a sofa and loveseat surrounding a coffee table and facing a TV, and enormous sliding doors that let in the sunlight and led out onto a private balcony overlooking a beautiful courtyard. Nothing stirred in Castiel's memory, no hints surfaced how he might know Dean, nothing triggered no matter how he searched his memory for the name and handsome appearance.

"I'm sorry," Castiel shrugged uncomfortably, dropping on to the loveseat. "I don't."

"Well, it don't matter," Dean lied. "Come on, let's nail this baby."

"We're still talking about music, right?"

"Yes, Cas, we're still talking about music," Dean rolled his eyes. "What kind of perv do you take me for?"

Castiel looked uncertainly down at the page. He had his part mostly down, but the reassurance of the sheet music to glance at if he needed to was nice. Dean was empty handed, leaning back casually on the sofa, eyes closed.

"Are you ready?" Castiel asked uncertainly.

"Whenever you are. I don't come in until the first repeat."

Hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, Castiel started his part. Dean came in right on cue, pitch perfect, voice low and vibrant. He already had his part memorized perfectly. As they progressed and Castiel got into the spirit of the song, he found his eyes increasingly wandering from the page to his duet partner. Dean looked beautiful with his head thrown back, his mouth wide around each rich note, all tension drained from his face as he lost himself completely in the music.

They sounded as good together as Castiel had hoped.

In the back of his mind, a thought teased and niggled, but whenever Castiel tried to reach for it, the memory flitted away. There _was_ something familiar about Dean, about the way he sang, about the way he relaxed under the spell of the song, if only Castiel could remember _what_.

* * *

The only thing that sounded better than Dean and Castiel practicing in their room together was the five members of the group coming together the next down in the sound studio. None of them had shirked their responsibilities, everyone walked in with their part down letter and note perfect, and when they sang the separate, often incomprehensible parts in harmony, it came together as only great music does. For all the gimmicks surrounding the absurdly named contest, the song was good and they sang it awesomely together. When they finished their fifth take, nailed it note-perfect, they exchanged elated glances and then broke down laughing as if they'd just shared a hilarious joke.

After a fashion, they had.

They _were_ going to be the Next Big Thing.

No one was sent home after that first song, and by the end of a long day of work, Castiel returned to the sumptuous hotel room with a signed contract, a pile of music to learn pronto, and his heart pounding with adrenaline and excitement and apprehension. Picking up his cell phone in trembling hands, he dialed home.

 _Please let mom pick up, please let mom pick up, please let mom pick up_...

"Novak residence, Anna speaking," said the light, perky voice of his little sister.

"Hello, Anna," Castiel replied, smiling.

"Cassie! Oh my God, oh my God—"

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain!" snapped his father's voice in the background quellingly. Castiel's heart sank. "Let me talk to Castiel."

"Whatever happens it's alright," whispered Anna urgently into the receiver. "You're gonna be awesome, Cassie, I just know it, I—"

"Good evening, Castiel," said Michael solemnly.

"Good evening, sir," Castiel replied with matching gravity.

"How are things going in Houston?" His father's neutrality was carefully assumed and maintained. Castiel knew from past, similar conversations that said calmness would last until the moment Michael heard the truth and then there would be hell to pay.

"We had our first joint session today," said Castiel, hoping to forestall the inevitable as long as possible. For all that things hadn't always been easy growing up, he loved his family. His mother, nervous about the influences Castiel would be exposed to – Dean's _sex, drugs and rock and roll_ – was nonetheless supportive of Castiel's dream and prepared to trust Castiel's innate nature and morality to steer him away from dangerous influences. His father had no such faith in Castiel. _That_ was the part that hurt the most, that despite how Castiel had been raised, despite a lifetime of obedience and good behavior and A's in school and church every Sunday, his father believed that without a stern eye watching over him Castiel would instantly succumb to the temptation of self-indulgence, fall prey to the influences of lost, materialistic, heathen lifestyle. "It went very well. The other people who won the contest are dedicated, talented musicians. I'm lucky to have the opportunity to work with such talented people." Of course, if Castiel ever came out as gay, he'd be as good as proving his father correct. Neither of his parents would believe that Castiel had known he was a homosexual since he was ten and he'd semi-accidentally kissed a boy from another choir with whom he'd been recording a duet. Nothing would convince them that he hadn't been contaminated by outsiders and atheists and liberals and whoever else they felt like blaming.

The other end of the phone remained stony silent. Castiel wished that Michael would say something, _anything_ , instead of leaving it for Castiel to instigate the inevitable break to come.

"I was offered a contract today," he broached tentatively.

"And?"

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Castiel closed his eyes, sent a silent prayer to heaven, and said, "I signed it."

"I see. Goodbye, Castiel."

"But—"

The line went dead.

With a sigh, tears in his eyes, Castiel took his cell from his ears. He glanced at the pile of music he'd brought home. He _should_ practice before the next day – they were going to be tackling a second song already – but he couldn't bring himself to sing, couldn't find that feeling of joy that always inspired his best music. Instead, he threw his phone atop the papers, walked listlessly across the room to the large bed and threw himself atop the covers fully clothed, burying his face in the blankets.

He'd known the price for his dream and he'd pursued it anyway. This was his choice to make and he'd made it. He wished it hadn't cost him his family, though. His phone pinged and he fumbled for it, ignored whatever message it was trying to communicate, turned the sound off. Whatever it was could wait until morning. Everything could wait until morning. A new dawn, a new day, a new beginning – he could face what was to come, but he could also allow himself one night to wallow in how much his father's rejection hurt.

A small, lonely part of him – a boy by himself in a strange new place, making decisions in the space of 24 hours that would affect the entire rest of his life – wished that someone, anyone, was there with him. His mother, his sister, his brother Gabriel, his best friend Uriel, _anyone_ so that he wouldn't be so alone.

Dean Winchester. He wished Dean Winchester was there.

Shuddering, Castiel curled into a ball, unable to hold the tears back.

Wasn't that exactly the problem? Maybe his parents were right. He'd been on his own 48 hours and he already had a crush on a boy he barely knew. What was the _matter_ with him?

He pushed the thought away.

Things would look better in the morning.

* * *

The scowl Singer directed at Castiel when he saw him the next morning spoke volumes. Castiel knew how bad he looked – hair disheveled, eyes rimmed in red, skin pale, hands shaking. Worse, he knew he looked hung over. Anyone who saw him would assume that, at his age, all things considered, it was far more likely that he'd spent the night drinking than crying.

 _When they see a 19 year old, which are they going to assume? That I went on a bender. I wonder if they've ever fired someone less than 12 hours after signing them? I might set a new record._

Singer didn't say anything, however, until Castiel flubbed his part for the fourth time. Sight singing was a strength of his, but he was so tired, his eyes so gritty and painful, that the notes blurred together, the words were hard to make out. Apparently, getting smashed could be forgiven _if_ he knew his part, but since he didn't…

"Novak, you're not the first young idjit I've seen who got a contract and had it go to his head," snapped Singer. "If you lot think your hard work is done because you signed on the dotted line, you've got another thing common. We _own_ you now, it's only gonna get harder from here. If you can't cut it, I'll remind you of the various clauses on how your contract can be terminated. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," muttered Castiel as the others nodded agreement. If the studio released him, where would he go? He couldn't go home, couldn't afford to return to school, couldn't think of anyone who might take him in, couldn't even turn to the church for they'd surely reject him unless he lied to them when seeking aid. God, he might be homeless, forced to live on the streets, begging for what food he could get. Jabbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer, he tried to use pain and force of will to push through. It wasn't the worst he'd felt for a performance, he'd sang with the flu, he'd sang with a broken leg, he'd sang after being awake for two days straight because the back of a car was too uncomfortable for him to sleep, he'd sang while…

"Hey," Dean's gruff voice interrupted his internal pep talk. "Sounds like our parts are virtually identical on this one. Just follow my lead, 'kay?"

"Yeah – yeah, sure," Castiel nodded and immediately regretted it. Dean was standing beside him, close enough that the open flap of Dean's jacket brushed against Castiel's back, close enough that Castiel could feel his body warmth as a comforting presence along his side. It felt nice, helped push away the edge of panic that told Castiel that he might yet get hired, disowned, and fired in the same day. A whisper of memory stirred again, but concentration was too essential for Castiel to chase it.

The song opened with a musical riff, already recorded, then Henriksen started them off, Garth jumped in with the lyrical main line, trading it to Jo, and then Dean and Castiel came in on the chorus. With Dean singing in his ear, Castiel didn't need to be able to read the music well, all he had to do was imitate what Dean was doing. It was the first take they actually got through, and Castiel couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping, when he was sure the last note had petered out.

"Better," said Singer over the loud speaker. "Now let's do it ten more times."

"See? You got this, Cas," Dean's breath brushed hot over Castiel's ear, sent a shiver down his spine. "You got this."

It took all morning to finish recording the song. The afternoon was spent with a bevy of support staff looking them over, taking their pictures, shoving outfits at them and telling them to put them on, taking more pictures. Makeup artists held palettes of color against their skin, stylists messed with their hair without cutting a single strand, arguments broke out over whether Castiel should wear blue to bring out his eyes or if that was too cliché, if Victor would look better in bright colors or muted, if Garth should go the skinny jeans route to accentuate his height and slimness, if Jo should project an ultra-femme image (earning a scowl from her) or a tomboy one, if Dean should be allowed to keep his leather jacket. More introductions were made than Castiel could ever hope to keep track of and most of the others looked equally overwhelmed, though he noticed that while Dean was clearly out of sorts – and very defensive of his jacket – he seemed to take it in stride and he learned every single name.

It was nearly midnight before the minivan the studio had assigned to them drove them back to the hotel, and Castiel still had the music to study that he'd ignored the night before. The busy day had worked wonders on his mood. It wasn't that he felt good – he simply didn't have time to think any more about his family or his situation. His only choice now was to make this new life work, and he wouldn't let _them_ screw that up for him. Chucking aside his cell phone – it was useless now, he had no one to talk to – he grabbed the sheet music beneath and began to study.

There was a knock on the door. It was Dean.

"Practice?" he suggested without preamble. Castiel nodded agreement.

They were up together until nearly four, but by the time Dean left Castiel knew his part for every song.

At the end of the evening, Castiel saw him out. There was an awkward moment at the door where he thought Dean hesitated, looked at him, pursued his lips, but Castiel reminded himself of Dean's reaction the first night to Castiel's mention of sex. The attraction was one-sided. Judging by the merciless way that Castiel had seen Dean flirt with Jo, Dean was aggressively hetero to the point of overcompensating. There was nothing to this. With a smile, Castiel ignored the imaginary signals and waved Dean out the door.

* * *

Endnote: ...my day ended up too sleepy/busy, and this story ended up too long, for me to get it all up today. The entire thing is written, I just need to finish editing it. The rest'll be up tomorrow, hopefully (there's a chance no just cause tomorrow is another busy day...).


	2. Chapter 2

The days passed in a flurry of activity. According to Singer, their first public appearance was slated for early June, exactly a month from their signing date, and by then they needed to present the polished, finished air of a more seasoned, experienced band – the kind of image that usually took teams of studio people a year to put together. To accomplish that end, endless days and nights of little sleep were spent practicing their music until Castiel lost track of whether he was awake or asleep, the songs consumed him so entirely. They all began to look rundown, unless the makeup crew had been at them, in which case they all looked so perfect that they might have been caricatures of themselves, appearances resembling that of air brushed cover models.

Every evening, Castiel and Dean practiced together in Castiel's room. At first, he dismissed it as normal – there parts _were_ often similar, which made it imperative that they know be familiar with each other's parts so that they'd know when they sang together and when they didn't, lest the instinct to accompany each other take over and they make a mistake. However, the small signs that Dean was flirting kept accumulating. He'd crack jokes, give Castiel that dazzling smile, choose to join Castiel on the loveseat even with the vast expanse of the sofa unoccupied, wait lingeringly in the doorway eying Castiel's lips, find excuses to brush touches against Castiel's skin – all manner of things that made him increasingly irresistible and made the small voice in Castiel's mind that screamed that it was all in Castiel's head more and more difficult to credit.

The makeover crew had made changes to each of them, expertly branding them each with a personality meant to obvious just by looking at them. Where Castiel had favored simple slacks, button down shirts and ties, a mirror to what he'd worn for years in religious school, he'd surrendered to their changes and now spent every day in slacks similar yet strangely different in cut and style, brightly colored shirts, vests, spiky hair and thick-rimmed glasses he didn't need. Castiel was glad it wasn't a dramatic change; Jo had nearly flipped the table she was sitting at when they'd shown her the goth-punk-pop look they wanted her to wear, but like the rest of them, she wore it. Victor complained almost as loudly about his baggy pants and basketball jerseys, he knew full well he was being made into the stereotype of a black teen, but he also accepted it. It wasn't like they had any choice, so they might as well embrace their new images, and Castiel thought that not only did the outfits take into account their personalities, they also looked interesting and, somehow, worked together, mostly through subtle use of unifying colors. The only one of them thrilled with the change was Garth, who now had more pairs of skinny jeans than anyone should need and a startling array of geeky t-shirts, all of which sported logos and characters that he could name; his stylist Charlie and he had bonded instantly over the incomprehensible garments. Dean's wardrobe had been switched from his leather jacket to loose jeans, big chunky boots, fitted t-shirts, and plaid button ups worn open with the sleeves rolled up, showing an impressive tattoo of a beautiful blonde woman covering his forearm, stylized to look like stained glass. The executives had decided that the tattoo was a good nod to Dean's "bad boy" attitude, while the subject matter showed he had a heart of gold – it was of his mother who had died six years ago, when he when Dean was 12.

When Castiel saw the beautiful art, his memories stirred again, but try as he might he'd not been able to remember. He longed to ask Dean, but Dean had given him no openings since that first night to ask if they knew each other and Castiel hadn't been able to bring himself to broach the topic. Castiel had sung with so many other children his life, from his own church and from others, that he could scarce remember more than a blur of endless, youthful faces, none of which resembled Dean. Puberty had surely changed all of them beyond recognition, Castiel included, and try as he might the name Dean Winchester brought no one to mind, nor did searching the internet for the name tell him anything of value, there were dozens of people named Dean Winchester, including some he thought might be the "right" Dean Winchester, but none were anyone related to choral singing, nor did any show pictures of a youth Castiel could remember singing with.

Castiel thought there was at least a chance Dean liked him. For his part, Castiel was rapidly crossing from having a crush to being completely obsessed. Every time Dean smiled at him, every time the light caught Dean's deep green eyes, every time a flush of embarrassment brought out the smattering of freckles over the bridge of Dean's nose, every time their skin brushed, Castiel's breath quickened and he felt a rush of blood to his heart and his cheeks and his dick. The previous weekend they'd had an honest-to-God day off and Dean and the others had spent it in the hotel courtyard, alternating between swimming in the gorgeous bright blue pool and lounging in their swim suits. Dean had only recently turned 18, and whereas Castiel's shoulders were starting to fill out to the shape of adulthood, Dean was still every inch a lanky boy, tall and slim, muscular and _gorgeous_. Castiel had originally planned to join them but he'd begged off only barely having to fake feeling sick and exhausted, instead sitting on his patio reading, watching, and waving whenever one the others noticed him. The book had been a pretext, mostly he'd watched his band mates – his _friends_ , he thought with a happy glow, for wonderfully they did all get along. Dean had flirted effortlessly with Jo, horse-played with Garth, gotten into a good-natured argument with Victor loud enough that Castiel could hear it from his balcony, and Castiel had felt like a heel for staying away, wished he had the courage to be around Dean. He couldn't, though. Swim trunks didn't hide erections and there was no way Castiel could have been close to Dean so scantily clad without being overcome by the desire that buzzed permanently beneath his skin whenever Dean was near him.

Every night after Dean left his room, Castiel retreated to his shower and jerked off. The need was mortifying, but he couldn't help it. Had he not been so tired, had their workload not been so heavy, he thought he might have been able to control his desire, but he was so exhausted all the time that there was no fighting it. Dean was beautiful and kind and talented and extremely hard working, and Castiel wanted him so much it was starting to drive him nuts. He honestly considered asking Dean not to come over in the evenings, he could easily pretend he wanted more sleep. Dean need never know it was because Castiel was finding it increasingly hard to sit near him and not push him into the couch, kiss him breathless and rut their crotches together until, moaning, they both came in their pants.

As the day of their TV appearance neared, Garth and Victor showed increasing signs of panic, and the more experienced three worked to keep them calm and remind them it was like any other performance. Castiel had been on TV so many times he'd lost track and Jo's exposure on YouTube meant she was past any performance qualms. It was less clear why Dean wasn't bothered – either he had past experience he hadn't discussed and that Castiel hadn't found while Googling him, or he simply wasn't phased by the prospect – but regardless, he seemed a picture of calm that even Castiel found reassuring.

Unsurprisingly, they needn't have worried.

The appearance went off without a hitch. No, better than that, it went off stellarly. All of them had been prepped on what kinds of questions they'd be asked and how they should answer, regardless of the truth. All of them had been primped and polished and styled to within an inch of their lives. All of them had learned the two songs they'd be performing so well they could have sang them in their sleep. When they finished their segment, they all were matched in exuberance: racing hearts, cheeks so flushed that red showed through the makeup they wore, sweaty brows. In the warm afterglow of a stunning performance. Garth gave them all enormous hugs, then did it again; Jo couldn't stop laughing at _everything_ ; Vic kept staring in to space and nodding at nothing with an approving smile; and Dean beamed at each of the others in turn, beamed at the tattoo on his arm, beamed at his phone. A small, hopeful part of Castiel thought the most unrestrainedly happy looks were reserved for him, but he tried not to put stock in it.

Their segment aired at 7 that night. Social media exploded with talk about _The Next Big Thing_ and Castiel was relieved to find most of what was said was extremely positive – and the things that were negative were precisely what he'd anticipated. There was always a subsection of the populace that would denigrate a band like theirs the instant they came out; some people were also pointedly offended at how there was only one woman among the winners, only one person of color, and that Victor's outfit was ghastly bad. There was no preventing there being some negative attention, but their target audience – teen girls – seemed thrilled. Of all of them, Vic and Jo got the most attention, both positive and negative, but there were several gushing diatribes about Castiel's eyes that left him blushing, Dean's tattoo was a hit, and the geekier crowd took to Garth and his boxy ears, thrilled to see someone who wasn't perfectly polished among the crowd.

It wasn't late when they got back to the hotel. As spring edged towards summer, the sun was up later and later, and when he entered his room Castiel was greeted by a gorgeous sunset streaming through the window, painting his hotel room pink and orange. The next day they'd be moving to studio apartments rented and furnished for them by the label, rooms on the same floor of the same building to facilitate their work, encourage them to practice together, and make it easier for the label to transport them and keep an eye on their behavior. Castiel had a feeling it would feel a lot like living in a dormitory and he was excited about it. They'd grown close the past month. It was such a relief that not only did they sing well together and look good together, they actually got along. Exhausted, unable to bring himself to pack for the move the next morning, Castiel threw himself on his bed. Surrendering to the inevitable, he burrowed into his blankets and let his eyes slip shut.

The shrill ring of the room phone woke Castiel to darkness. Fumbling, he flipped the bedside lamp on and spotted the long-ignored phone on a desk across the room. He stumbled over as quickly as he could, scrubbing fatigue from his eyes.

"Hello?"

"Cassie!" shrieked Anna. Castiel moved the phone from his ear to protect against the earsplitting volume. "Oh my God, oh my God, I saw your show, you guys are _so, so, so_ good, I can't believe it!" His younger sister was 16 and smack in the midst of their target demographic. "And you looked fantastic – but kind of tired – Hannah didn't think so but I thought so, are you getting enough rest? Are you eating enough? Does the studio pay you well? Why haven't you answered my texts? Did they take your cell phone away? I thought they must have taken your cell phone away, but then today I remembered you'd told me the name of the hotel and I realized I could call your room but I had to wait until mom and dad went to bed because if anyone mentions your name Dad gets really angry and Mom starts to cry and Gabe storms up to his room and so we just don't talk about you."

Stunned speechless by her verbal onslaught, Castiel stared at the phone, mouth agape. He hadn't thought about his cell in weeks, he wasn't even sure where he'd put it. Looking at it had only made him sad, and he'd not bothered to charge it when the battery had died.

"I'll be right back," he stammered.

"Oh…okay," she replied uncertainly, enthusiasm painfully dimmed by his lackluster response.

Setting the receiver down on the desk, he scrambled across the room, searching around the bed, near the couches, finally finding the phone stashed in the drawer of his night stand and his charger plugged in behind the TV. Taking both over to the desk, he plugged it into the base of the lamp and waited for it to turn on as he returned to Anna.

"I'm so sorry, Anna," managed Castiel. "I still have my phone but I haven't been charging it. I assumed mom and dad would stop paying for it, and since dad is furious at me, there didn't seem to be any point in trying to use it. Um…what else did you ask? The studio makes sure we get food, but no, I don't really get enough sleep. The pay is good, and we don't need to spend much of it, they're taking care of our housing in Houston. Even if we fail, I should come out of this with enough money to pay for college." He hoped to pay for her college as well, but that was a conversation for another time, when he was sure he'd saved enough. "How are things with you?"

"Not bad," she said calmly enough that Castiel could hold the phone close again. "Things at home have been really tense so I've been hanging out at Hannah's a lot, that's how I was able to watch you today. I think dad would have had a fit if I'd tried to turn it on in the living room. Is Jo really as dreamy as she seems?" Castiel started at her tone, wondering if he'd imagined the almost worshipful note to it.

"I don't know…I guess? She's really smart and she's a great singer. She keeps saying she hates her look, but she wore one of those outfits on her day off so I think she secretly likes them, at least the flouncy skirts and the knee-high boots. Have you looked up her YouTube stuff yet? She and her friend Ash and a few others had a group called Harvelcapella, they're really good. I think you'd like them, they do a capella remixes of pop songs. How is school?"

"Ooooh, I'll check it out!" Castiel's phone made a quiet ding as it turned on. Impatient, he picked it up, wishing it'd load faster so he could see the texts that Anna apparently had sent him. "School's been fine. You know how it is there, it's exactly the same as it was before you left. But my grades are high and swim team is good and dad is happy to boast about me now that you're gone. Anyway, all of us have been getting away with all kinds of stuff 'cause dad's so pissed at you. Gabe can't decide if he wants to hit him or pray that this reprieve lasts forever. He keeps joking about sending you a medal; I think if he had your address he'd actually do it. So what about Dean?"

The message screen finally loaded and Castiel's eyes filled with tears. He had more than fifty messages from his sister, several dozen from his brother Gabriel, a handful from Uriel, and thirty three from his mother Naomi. There were none from his father or his other siblings. Finger trembling, he flicked to the ones from his mom.

 _Mom (May 4_ _th_ _, 7:12 AM): Castiel, I wanted you to know that regardless of what your father says, you'll always be my son and I love you._

 _Mom (May 4_ _th_ _, 6:34 PM): I understand if you're upset and don't want to talk about this right now, but please always know that I'm here if you ever need me for anything. What Michael doesn't know won't hurt him._

 _Mom (May 5_ _th_ _, 7:01 AM): I love you, Castiel._

"Cassie?" asked Anna.

 _Mom (May 6_ _th_ _, 7:23 AM): I love you, Castiel._

"I'm sorry – what?"

 _Mom (May 7_ _th_ _, 6:44 AM): I love you, Castiel._

"I asked you about Dean."

 _Mom (May 8_ _th_ _, 7:11 AM): I love you, Castiel._

"What about him?"

 _Mom (May 9_ _th_ _, 7:11 AM): I love you, Castiel._

So it went, every single morning since he'd left, a single text from her declaring her simple, unconditional support. Shaking uncontrollably, Castiel clicked on the text box to reply. He could hardly concentrate, had no idea what to say, too upset by his mother's words to focus on his conversation with Anna.

 _Mom (June 4_ _th_ _, 7:41 AM): I love you, Castiel._

 _Castiel (9:52 PM): I love you too, mom._

"He can't take his eyes off you. I mean…" she dropped to a whisper. "Cassie, I know you're…I thought you were….I mean…you're _gay_ , aren't you?"

He dropped his cell phone with a clatter. "Wha…I mean…why would you…no! Of course not!"

"Oh come _on,_ I've known for _ever_ , it was really obvious! Um…I think…" she hesitated, then said in a rush, "I think I am too. I mean, I like girls. But sometimes I also think I like boys."

"You might be bi," he said numbly, staring at the keypad on the phone screen as if it could tell him what else he should say.

"What's that?"

"Bisexual – you might like boys and girls," he clarified.

"That's a _thing_? Yeah, that'd be perfect! I'm _bi_ , Cassie, so I don't care if you're _gay_ ," she said in a squeaky, excited half-whisper that probably carried through the thin walls of their home easily. His parents were probably hearing every word. For himself, he didn't care, he couldn't be _more_ disowned, but he didn't want anything bad to happen to Anna.

"That's, um, that's great."

"So, you and Dean?"

"No…it's not…I mean," he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, wishing that the gesture could somehow contain his scattered thoughts. "It's not like that, I don't think? I don't know, he's never said anything."

"Oh! But if he did say something…"

Castiel blushed crimson. "…yeah…?"

"You'd hit that, wouldn't you?"

"Anna!"

"You would!"

 _Mom (9:56 PM): I'm here anytime, Castiel. Please take care of yourself. You looked thin during the interview. You're taking care of yourself, aren't you? Don't let them work you too hard!_

"Anna, I—"

"Dean and Cassie, sittin' in a tree—"

"What are you, ten?"

"F-U-C-K-I-N-G!"

"ANNA!"

"First comes love, then comes marriage – that's legal now, you know! – then comes—"

"Jesus, Anna!"

"No, Cassie, Jesus doesn't have _anything_ to do with that!"

"Look – I've gotta go. We're moving tomorrow, so you won't be able to call me at this line, but I'll go get a new cell phone and I'll text the number to you, okay?"

"Fine, fine." Her laughter was like a breath of fresh air to his tired soul. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his family until he heard her voice. "You'll call me?"

"I promise."

"Good night, Cassie."

"Good night, Anna."

 _Castiel (10:01 PM): You watched the interview?_

 _Mom (10:03 PM): It's book club night. I was at Meg's house._

 _Mom (10:04 PM): We all watched together. It wasn't a very good book anyway._

 _Mom (10:04 PM): Your father will come around eventually._

 _Mom (10:05 PM): You sang like an angel, Cassie. I'm so proud of you._

 _Castiel (10:06 PM): Thanks, mom._

 _Mom (10:08 PM): So, what about Dean?_

Castiel's heart skipped a beat. God, was Dean being _that_ obvious? It was only the past couple days that Castiel had begun to think that _maybe_ he wasn't imagining Dean's interest. And his mother's question implied understanding, maybe even acceptance…

 _Mom (10:09 PM): He's grown so much! It's such a pity about his mother, she was very sweet._

Shocked, Castiel exclaimed aloud and tried to think how to ask her about it without sounding like an idiot.

 _Castiel (10:10 PM): There's something so familiar about him, but I can't remember!_

 _Mom (10:12 PM): Oh, Cassie, don't be ridiculous, of course you remember! Dean Campbell and his mother Mary?_

Dean Campbell, he remember. Dean Campbell, Castiel would _never_ forget. Dean was the youth soloist for his mother's evangelical church, famous for his high voice, and the two churches had decided to record them together. They'd ended up making three albums over three successive Christmas', but then Dean's mother had died in a car accident and Dean had stopped answering the occasional letters Castiel sent and Castiel's heart had broken. Dean's younger brother, Sam, had become even more famous than Dean had and still performed with their father. When Castiel had finally secured permission to sign up for Facebook, he'd tried to find Dean but hadn't had any luck.

Dean Campbell, Castiel's first crush, his first kiss, his first clue that maybe he wasn't like the other boys he knew.

There was a resemblance, he reflected. Dean used to have long hair that covered his ears and his neck, the brown so light it was nearly blonde. A thick spread of freckles had covered his nose and cheeks, and his _eyes_ , his eyes were so _green_. His voice was high and boyish, beautiful and rich when he sang, and he'd always learned music with an alacrity that Castiel had envied. His mother had been as close to an angel in appearance and attitude as Castiel had ever met, sweet and loving and kind and beautiful, and she clearly doted on her sons.

All of the niggling memories suddenly clicked. Puberty had worked a lot of changes, Dean had grown a lot, his hair darkened, his voice nearly unrecognizable.

 _Of course I didn't recognize him._

His freckles were exactly the same, though, and his pink lips, and his stunning green eyes.

 _He recognized me._

The tattoo of his mother was the spitting image of Mary, aside from the abstraction introduced by transforming her image to that of stained glass.

 _God, I'm such an idiot_.

 _Mom (10:15 PM): You really don't remember? Winchester is their real name, they just went by Campbell for performing and preaching because of the connections that Mary had through the church her father had founded. The Campbell's were famous, so they used that name to help the boys get more attention._

 _Castiel (10:17 PM): I really didn't remember. But now I do. I'm sorry, mom, I have to go. I'll text you in the morning, okay?_

 _Mom (10:18 PM): Sleep tight, my angel!_

Castiel barely took in her parting words as he set the phone down. His first steps across the room were calm and measured, but his heart was pounding in his ears so loudly he could hardly think, his bare toes curling against the carpet, his breaths coming increasingly fast. He was walking as fast as he could by the time he reached the door, pulled it open, and stepped into the hall. It slammed behind him as he sprinted to the staircase. The tiled floor of the stairs slapped painfully against the soles of his feet as he leapt up the two flights separating their rooms. He crashed into the wall as he careened around the corner at the top of the stairs, jerked the emergency door open and bolted down the long hallway, the identical doors on both sides making the distance to the far end seem endless. He was gasping by the time he got there, heart racing, and he pounded heavily against the thin wood.

"Who's there?" called Dean, muffled by distance and the door.

"It's Cas," he panted. "Castiel."

A moment later the door opened to show him a sleep-ruffled, shocked Dean Winchester, looking wide eyed and young and so damn familiar that Castiel couldn't believe he hadn't put it together previously.

"Cas, what's the—"

 _He's just so damn irresistible!_

Castiel threw his arms around Dean's neck and pulled their mouths together. It was sloppy and ridiculous, Dean's lips met Castiel's nose, Castiel's hit Dean's jawbone, but he didn't care, Castiel kissed the hollow of Dean's cheek, the corner of his mouth, found Dean's warm lips and pressed their mouths together eagerly. Pleasure bubbled through him, such a relief after all his wondering, all his self-denial, all his worrying and trying to remember.

"Cas?" Dean whispered uncertainly against his mouth. He'd scarce reciprocated, standing as if paralyzed.

"I remember," said Cas, breath heavy against Dean's mouth. Unable to resist, he kissed Dean again. "I remember." A faint groan died in Dean's throat as he leaned into Castiel, wrapped his arms around Castiel's back, kissed him back. "I never forgot you." Dean's tongue teased at his lips and Castiel opened to him delightedly, sucking at his tongue, drawing another faint groan. "I could _never_ forget you." Their tongues flicked together and apart, Castiel lapping at Dean's lips, his teeth, he tasted like soda and musk and something Castiel couldn't place but was as familiar as the smell of Dean's skin, the feel of Dean's arms around him. "I just didn't realize you were _you_."

"It's okay," Dean said fervently, peppering Castiel's mouth with brief, frantic kisses, in between which he manage, "It's okay. It's my fault anyway. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should have written you back, I should have—"

"Oh man," said Jo's voice behind them. Starting, Castiel shook off Dean's arms and leapt around to see her, Garth and Vic standing in the hallway staring at them. "Wait until the media finds out. They're gorgeous _and_ they're gay for each other. We're gonna be the biggest thing since Britney."

"Just don't get bitchy and break up," Victor added bluntly. "You'll screw up the band. This is a good thing we've got going."

"Don't worry," said Dean, snaking an arm possessively around Castiel's waist, another over his shoulder. Castiel melted back into the contact, releasing a deflating sigh of relief. Dean was hot and solid behind him, a reassuring body pressed against his own. "Now that I've got him back, I'm never letting him go."

* * *

Desperate kisses punched light behind Castiel's eyes. As much as he wanted to watch Dean, wanted to stare at him, wanted to trace every way that the boy had become a man and soak up how gorgeous every part of him was, he couldn't keep his eyes open, couldn't bring himself to both look and feel as strong hands tugged his shirt up, ran up and down his sides, kneaded at his back. Every touch was electric, perfect, new and forbidden and everything he'd wanted.

"Lost near a year of my life after mom died," breathed Dean between kisses. Castiel pushed him down on the bed, straddled his waist, slipped hands beneath his shirt to rub against the heated skin beneath, brush through the thin covering of hair. "After that I felt like such a jerk for not writing you back, and I wasn't singing any more 'cause my voice dropped and I—" Curious what reaction he'd get, Castiel flicked a finger over Dean's nipple, felt the flesh instantly pucker. Dean broke off with a gasp that turned into a groan as Castiel gently tweaked the nub between two of his fingers, rubbing and twisting. "Christ, Cas, that feels _awesome_." Dean's hands locked firm around Castiel's butt, forced their hips together. Sensation beyond anything Castiel had imagined fired through his body as their hard erections brushed, Dean's pajama bottoms scarce containing him, Castiel's jeans confining him uncomfortably. "I'd screwed up so bad, hadn't sent you anything at all, convinced myself you no longer wanted to hear from me—"

"Damn it, Dean—"

"I'm sorry," Dean caught Castiel's lower lip as he sucked an urgent kiss against Castiel's mouth and rutted up from the bed to brush them together.

"Dean—"

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered again, loud groan a strange counterpoint to the soft, tender words. "I didn't mean to—"

" _Would you shut up and get my cock out already?_ " Castiel snarled, eyes flashing open to show him Dean's expression, momentary stunned then slipping into a dopey grin. Dean's hands left his sides to fumble at the buttons, taut at the crotch of Castiel's fitted jeans. Sitting back, Castiel traced his nails lightly over Dean's chest and stomach, caught the elastic of his pants and freed Dean's dick, red and curved, moist at the tip, oh-so tempting and beautiful, everything he'd been fantasizing about for a month.

 _Longer than that, God, so much longer, I've been dreaming about this dick since I hit puberty._

With a triumphant cry, Dean got the button undone and lowered the zipper and Castiel moaned at relief that the fabric was no longer digging at him, noise shattering into a broken, guttural groan as Dean's fingers slipped through the slit in Castiel's boxers, tentatively brushed against Castiel's aching dick and pulled him free. Need, urgent and hot and frantic for physical contact, consumed him: need for more touch, for more contact, to feel Dean move against him, feel Dean's hands on his body; need to thrust and fill and be filled and suck and kiss and taste. It felt like going mad. Burying a hand in Dean's hair, fingers tight against Dean's scalp, Castiel bent low once more to kiss him deeply, bringing their hips close, urgently thrusting their bodies together so that at every pass their dicks bumped and brushed, smearing each other with drops of pre-come.

Frantic panting broke fragmented their kisses, the only sound a low growl deep in Dean's chest. Castiel's free hand went to Dean's nipples once more – he adored the reaction he'd provoked the first time. One of Dean's hands settled low on Castiel's spine, urging him on, urging him to press their bodies together more closely. The other snaked between their bodies, wrapped around both their dicks, slotted them together so that every pass brushed velvety soft skin against velvety soft skin, the way smoothed by only sweat and the early release beading from each of their slits. Castiel's body felt hot as it never had before, his thoughts consumed by how fantastic it felt, his only priority to keep moving to ensure that the feeling never ended, ensure that it grew, ensure that Dean felt the same way. In between sloppy kisses that left both of their mouths and cheeks slick with saliva, Castiel whispered Dean's name like a prayer.

All at once, it was too much sensation, too much pleasure, and Castiel climaxed with a groan, desperately pumping into Dean's grip, spurting sticky come onto Dean's hand and belly.

"Cas…" Dean groaned. Dean's hand stroked more urgently, his body going rigid, hips straining against where Castiel's weight pinned him to the bed. Awkwardly, Castiel reached between them, cupped Dean's cock in his hand, helped Dean to stroke. "Castiel… _fuck_ …" He groaned again, his dick surged in Castiel's grip, and he came, his release mixing with Castiel's and beading thickly, pooling on Dean's belly and rolling down his side as he took huge, surging breaths.

Slumping with sudden fatigue, Castiel curled over Dean, panting, a drop of sweat tracing down his forehead and around his eye. There was a long pause, then Dean surged up from the bed, wrapped his arms around Castiel's back, pulled their bodies together. There was a ridiculous squelching sound as the come caught wetly between them and Dean flushed crimson, his freckles pale by contrast. Laughing, Castiel kissed him lightly on the cheek, again and again, until Dean's embarrassment faded into rueful chuckles.

"First time?" Dean asked, stroking gently along Castiel's back.

"Yeah." With a happy sigh, Castiel settled into a more comfortable position, easing against Dean's body, stretching his legs out so that they interlaced with Dean's.

"Me too" confessed Dean.

"Really?"

"Really. Got close a few times…but…" Dean squirmed and Castiel looked up to see him staring towards the curtained window, cheeks pink again. "Um…none of them were you…man, I had such a crush on you...I told myself to get over it, that I was never gonna see you again and I was being an idiot, but I couldn't get you out of my head. When I saw you here, I thought _damn_ was I one lucky bastard to get a second chance. That first night I thought you _must_ know me, and I wasn't sure that was a good thing. When you didn't remember, I figured that was even better, it meant wouldn't remember what an asshole I was. But it wasn't better – I couldn't seem to get your attention, couldn't get you take me seriously."

"Well, you _did_ keep flirting with Jo," Castiel scolded. "You could have _said_ something to me, Dean."

"So coulda you! You wouldn't even give me a hint, I didn't want to make a move if you weren't interested, I've gotta work with you for, like, years after this, how awkward would a failed pass be?"

Smiling, Castiel conceded the point with a nod and a shrug of his shoulders. "You're forgiven," he murmured, sucking lightly at Dean's neck.

Castiel had no idea how long passed as they quietly lay together, pressed close. Their bodies calmed, quieted, their breathing grew even. Slowly, Castiel ceased to feel like he was burning with desire; instead he felt calm, at peace, happy, comfortable in his own skin in a way that felt unfamiliar. The hour grew later, the only sound the periodic rush of air as the air conditioner turned on and off. Dean grew so still that Castiel thought he must have fallen asleep; he shifted so that Dean wouldn't be smothered beneath his weight, painting a light kiss over Dean's cheek as he moved.

"Would you think I'm crazy if I said I love you?" whispered Dean.

"I love you too, Dean."

The arms around Castiel tightened, Dean's body rippled appealingly beneath his, and the feeling of heat pooled in his gut once more.

"You're my next big thing," Dean said with a smirk.

"Well, however else you may have changed, your jokes still suck," Castiel grinned, sitting up beside Dean and wiggling out of his pants.

"Bull, you think I'm _hilarious_."

"No, I think you're _adorable._ "

Dean punched him playfully in the arm and tumbled Castiel to the bed. The mattress bounced, the blankets shifted, and at some point rough housing gave way once more to heavy breathing, needy kisses, wandering hands. Dean was pulling his shirt over his head, Castiel was tugging his pajamas aside to show him Dean's cock half-hard and twitching, they were both rubbing together to feel the brush of skin on skin, leaking moans into the otherwise quiet night.

"Ready for another go?"

"God, yes!"

"All mine, angel – you're all mine."

"As long as I can say the same about you, Dean."

"Always, Cas. I might be an idiot, but I'm all yours."

"Perfect. Now, are you going to put that in my mouth, or do I have to come over there and get it?"

"Holy shit...where'd a choir boy like you learn to talk like that, Cas?"

"Fantasizing about you for a decade."

Dean groaned, and neither of them said another word for a long, long time.

It was easily the best night of Castiel's life.

* * *

End note:

So, it's only barely explicit in this story but I decided to make Castiel's mom Naomi. I considered my options (basically, female demons and angels) and decided that I could actually really see her as genuinely, lovingly maternal. After all, the decisions she made weren't malicious - she wanted to protect heaven. Sure, she went about it pretty horribly, maybe even sadistically, but her intentions were good. To me that fits well with being a mother - a mother who loves her family and wants what is best for all of them, and would be prepared to do really, really horrible things to anyone who tries to hurt them. I liked it better than any of my other choices, though. Thoughts?

(Vaguely related aside, I personally tend away from the Chuck Shurley/Becky Rosen pairing for Cas' parents. I've read versions of it I like but I personally do not "feel" it, mostly because I cannot, despite everything, see Shurley as God, and without that connection, they make no sense to be Cas' parents. I don't mind when other people write it that way but I just don't think I could...) :)

Anyway! That's that. :)

(another random aside: I know Jo and Vic's comments about finding Cas and Dean aren't the most politically correct...especially Henriksen's...for better or for worse that was intentional when I wrote that exchange...)

Have ideas for Writing Prompt Wednesday? Want to get involved? Just want to get to be friends? You should consider following me on Tumblr - my username is unforth-ninawaters.


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